


Case. Suspect. Chase. Jump.

by Monkeysock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Gen, Hospital, Mania, Mycroft is protective, Sherlock is Bipolar, Sherlock's Medical History, Sherlock's POV, argument, character injury, manic depression, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 23:22:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9209984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkeysock/pseuds/Monkeysock
Summary: “I’m fine.”“Fine?”  Mycroft stands and pokes his finger to my arm.  The one set in plaster and held to my chest in a sling.  That was incredibly painful. I cradle the damaged side against me and away from Mycroft. I have numerous bruises down my left side, and I had a loss of consciousness for a few minutes because of the concussion.  They said they wanted to monitor me.  I know why I am really here.





	

_Case. Suspect. Chase. Jump_

 

Mycroft finally enters the room.  

 

“How long?”

 

I don’t even want to look at him.  Mycroft looms over my hospital bed, he’s refusing to let it go.

 

“How long, Sherlock?”

 

It’s a small hospital room. Private.  I’ve been here for seven hours, but that isn’t what Mycroft is asking. He opens his mouth to repeat the question but I just can’t stand to hear his ignorant demand again.

 

“Three months.”

 

“You haven’t taken your lithium for three months?” Mycroft asks, clearly trying not to sound angry.  Of course he was not trying very hard.  He loves to look disappointed with me.  To make me feel like a child.  I am not a child. 

 

“I haven’t taken lithium since I was nineteen,” I snap. “It stopped working.”  But you know that.  You probably have my whole medical history as an app on your phone.  

 

Mycroft pulls the privacy curtain around and takes a seat.   “But you try something new when that happens.” Obviously.

 

“They always stop working.”

 

I feel fidgety.  Like I need to shake out my limbs until my skeleton crawls free from my skin.  This happens when I am free of medication.  A mild annoyance.  I’m fine.   

 

 _Case. Suspect. Chase. Jump._  

 

Things are different, of course.  I know I reached the peak hours ago, so I’ll be okay, I’m on the comedown. It will be fine.  I am fine.  My nose itches, I scratch it.  The pills are on the tray, taunting me. But I can make it through this episode. This episode is basically over anyways. Over. Done.  Finished.  

 

“Sherlock-“

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“Fine?”  Mycroft stands and pokes his finger to my arm.  The one set in plaster and held to my chest in a sling.  That was incredibly painful. I cradle the damaged side against me and away from Mycroft. I have numerous bruises down my left side, and I had a loss of consciousness for a few minutes because of the concussion.  They said they wanted to monitor me.  I know why I am really here.  

 

“I suppose you know best?” I say.  “Neurotypical Mycroft knows what is best for his poor mad brother.”

 

“I’ve never called you that.” 

 

It was true, Mycroft had never called me that.  Not even when I was young and he was feeling cruel.   Deep breath.  Focus. Don’t slip don’t slip don’t slip.  I wonder if I have the power to wish him out of my life.  Maybe I should try.  Then this could be over.  Please let it be over.

 

“When can I go home?”

 

Mycroft leaned back in his chair. “You aren’t just here for the concussion, you realize.”  I’m not an idiot. 

 

“When can I go home?”

 

“Sherlock, they need to monitor you.  Your behaviour over the last few days has been …erratic.”

 

“So they pump me full of drugs and wait until I meet their expectations?” I don’t want to think about the drugs.  They gave me some Lorazepam and a sedative to take the edge off while they set my arm.  The effects might be fading now.  I am feeling wired again.  No.  No, I am in control.  I can manage this.

 

But there are still those pills on my tray, next to the hospital lunch I have no intention of eating.  

 

Three little pills in a white paper cup.  They are watching me like Mycroft is watching me.  

 

 _Case. Suspect. Chase. Jump._  

 

It keeps repeating in my head like a bad jingle.  _Case. Suspect. Chase. Jump._   Those words are driving me-

 

No, stop. I'm fine.  I can’t act like this, I need to sound less agitated. Less strange.  “Mycroft, I can’t be here.  You know what will happen.  My mind with atrophy, my… my work will suffer.” _Case_.

 

“Your work? You mean that counterfeiting case? You know that you were manic.  Your mind invented that case in your… state.  We had the banknotes examined.  All of them were 100% legitimate.”

 

I tried to remember the last few days.  This often happened, the haze that went along with the highs.  My mind was always so alert while I’m in it, things just made sense, everything was so much clearer.  But as the mania fades, it is blur where the sharpness had been.  I can rarely account for all my decisions and deductions.  I knew everything once.  I was certain.  Now…

 

_Case. Suspect. Chase. Jump._

 

There are holes in my memory, not only from the concussion.  I don’t like this.  I can’t defend myself this way: Mycroft will be right and I’ll get nothing if I argue.  Mycroft just sits and waits for me to speak.  

 

“I was after a suspect,” I start. _Suspect_.

 

“There was no suspect.  Albert Roper was cleared of any suspicion due to lack of evidence.”  Was that the name I came up with?  I can’t even remember where that name came from.  There must have been some logical connection.  He was guilty of something.  I was so certain.

 

I try again. “I would have landed on the barge, I wasn’t trying to-“ _Chase._

 

“To what? To get yourself killed?” Mycroft says, suddenly fuming. “You were about to leap of a bridge, chasing after ghosts.  There was no sense in what you were doing.  Had John not been there you could have found yourself in a more serious situation.”   _Jump._

 

John. 

 

“You can’t tell him.”

 

“John already knows.”

 

“And I suppose you told John all about it, then?” 

 

My hands are trembling now. Were they trembling before?  They sometimes tremble.  

 

“No, there was no need,” Mycroft says. “At first he thought it was drugs, but John is a good enough doctor to realize what was going on.  You owe him much, starting with an apology for the black eye you gave him.”

 

I don’t remember that.  I recall climbing the railing and preparing myself to drop on to the barge.  It was straightforward.  It was clear, corroborated with the evidence and I was going to solve this case.  Then I remember being thrown to the ground.  John was furious.  Idiot.  It was nothing like St. Bart’s.  I was not going to get myself killed.  It was fine. Jumping isn’t always suicide. Falling isn’t always failing.

 

“Is he alright?”

 

“As I said, a black eye.”  Mycroft says.  “Nothing that won’t heal in time, though I would expect his concern for you is his priority over his own injury.  He wanted to be here but I told him I would speak to you first.”

 

“I don’t want to see him.”  I don’t want him to see me.

 

“You know he will be nothing but supportive.”  Mycroft keeps looking at me. Stop looking.  Stop it…

 

“I don’t need pity.”

 

“No, you need supervision.”  

 

That was a threat.  I try to think.  He is still looking at me.  He wants me to trust him.  I don’t know what I want.  

 

Thoughts are still intruding.  

 

 _Case. Suspect. Chase. Jump._  

 

He can tell I’m still scattered.  How does he always know?  He’s watching my thoughts. What am I saying out loud?  

 

“Sherlock, listen to me.  We don’t have to make this difficult.  Just find a new dosage to get yourself back to baseline.”  

 

“That could take weeks.  I am not staying here for weeks, Mycroft. Not again.”

 

I have been here before.  Not this bed, a different one.  And I was younger. And he still gave me that look. I was stuck until I acted the way they wanted, think without the thoughts jumping out. _Case. Suspect. Chase. Jump._ Shut up!

 

I am not staying here.  He is not making me stay, I will not stay.  He is looking at me. I will not look at him.  I breathe.  I had forgotten to breathe.  I must breathe, I must remain calm.  He blinks.  It is infuriating.  He is making a decision. I can see it in his blinks, under his eyes. He thinks I have lost control.

 

“You are going to have me sectioned.”

 

“I think you will benefit from a stay here, Sherlock.”  I knew it.  He is going to make me stay.  

 

“No,” came a voice.  The curtain, the one that offers very little privacy is opened.  John.  No no no… He was listening. I didn’t notice!  Why didn’t I notice?  Damn him.  Damn Mycroft.  I don’t want him to see me like this.  I was coming down.  I am not like I was on that bridge.  I can do better.  I will be fine.

 

“John, I asked you to remain outside while I spoke to my brother.”  Mycroft starts, but John interjects.  

 

“I’ll take responsibility for monitoring his progress at home,” he says.  He does have a bruised eye, though not as bad as I imagined… “We can have the place locked down for however long you want, have a mental health nurse check in on him daily until he stabilizes, install the bloody cameras again. Just don’t leave him to rot in this hospital.”

 

John isn’t looking at me.  Which is good, I don’t want him to see me.   Mycroft and John are staring at each other.  I remain silent.  I look at the tray.

 

The pills are still there, waiting for me.  Something new, something highly recommended based on my symptoms.  They wanted me to try them when I was first brought in, when they noticed I wasn’t my best state.   I don’t want to take them.

 

I think about what it feels to be normal.  Normal is a strange place.  Quite often a fleeting blip on the mental radar.  It isn’t begging for attention and forcing brash actions, nor is it curled on the sofa, unable to react to anything.  It is just between high and low.  Stable.  I have been there many times.  It is fine.  It is comfortable.  I can still think and work without dangerous outcomes.  When the right pills are at the right dose, they can keep the bipolar forces away from me.  Because that is what they decide to call this particular ailment. 

 

I can be normal.  Not average, never average.  Not ordinary.  

 

The pills aren’t a brand I recognize.  The on-duty psychiatric resident recommended them.  I can identify hundreds of different capsules and tablets from memory, but I don’t recognize these.  Does this mean anything?  No. Not likely.  There are thousands I don’t know.  The less common ones aren’t as well known to me.  I must endeavour to read more on capsule shape, size and colour for my research.  This isn’t relevant right now.  I am stalling.

 

“I cannot allow that, John,” Mycroft decides finally.  “He needs more than just a friend right now, he needs help.”  He emphasized the word 'help'. He does think I’m crazy.

 

“You know that between the two of us, we understand him better than anyone else in this world.  Who better to provide him the ’help’ than me?  I am still a practicing physician, so I am qualified to do this. I will keep you updated on his progress.”  

 

Now they are acting as if I’m not even here.  

 

I wish I wasn’t here.

 

 _Case. Suspect. Chase. Jump._ NO.

 

I snatch the little cup of pills from the tray and toss them back without water.  They are bitter and stick to my throat, but I manage to get them down.   I’ve drawn their attention now.  

 

Mycroft looks satisfied.

 

John looks relieved. 

 

Only then do I realize that this was probably set up to get me to try the pills.  They had spoken beforehand.  John can’t lie to me.  He looks like he wants to say something but I speak up before he gets the chance.

 

“I will try this one.  It will be at Baker Street and there will be no cameras.  Just John.  I will remain in the flat for the duration of the trial, though I will report back to the prescribing psychiatrist."  I was about to leave it there, but seeing the smug look on Mycroft's face creeping in, I continue.  "If you try to have me sectioned, I will find a way out and you will not find me again. You will not find me.”  I repeat myself to make it clear.  "There is no way I will allow myself to be ‘handled’ again.  If I am doing this, then I will do it my way."  

 

They seem to take my statement seriously.  Mycroft already has his phone out, John retrieves a fresh set of clothes for me from his bag.  Apparently I have won.

 

“I am trusting you, brother mine,”  Mycroft says.  “Stay on your medication. Tell us if you are feeling unwell and we will help you solve it.  Is that understood?”

 

I still want to argue.  Most of all I want to yell and scream at him because it isn’t fair.  I never wanted this.  This lack of control of my own mind.  

 

It is still racing, I can feel it.  But I will tame it.

 

I’m not fine.  But I could be.

 

I can try again.

 

“Alright.” I say.  

 

And it probably will be.

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock's symptoms of Bipolar Disorder and Mania are based partly on my own experiences. I made them as accurate as I could to how I personally feel when I am out of phase with my medication (though I haven't tried throwing myself off a bridge).


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